Night 57: The Coliseum

[el_aguila]

Touching the sandy grounds of the coliseum was a catalyst, and the progression of day did not mean the end of the process. By fortune or otherwise, this group's efforts were not allowed to halt simply due to the rising sun. Therefore, when nighttime was pronounced, those who had undergone the beginnings of an incomplete trial were pulled from their

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[its_the_mileage]

Indy’s lip curled. Damn smug bastard. What he really wanted was to punch Aguilar in the jaw, but with no chance of that happening anytime soon, he did the closest thing he could: he lifted the revolver and fired at the general. The result was neither satisfying nor effective. The bullet bounced off the same invisible barrier Pilgrim kept bruising himself on and landed harmlessly in the sand with a quiet “wumph.” Indy’s mouth thinned to a grim line. He hadn’t been banking on that working, but he’d had to try, even if it meant hurting Dent and Pilgrim.

And sure enough, it did. Peter was saying something, but what really stuck out was Pilgrim’s yowl cutting abruptly off; Indy looked up to see the kid claw for his throat as if someone were choking him, then collapse. Nearby, blood was snaking down Dent’s arm. Jesus, Indy thought, he wasn’t kidding. His wide-eyed stare shot to Aguilar, but the man himself didn’t seem to be doing anything. How the hell could this be happening?

He wanted to yell something to the four of them, something encouraging, but nothing came. Instead, he turned back to Peter. Peter he could’ve said something to (“She’s not you,” maybe, anything to shoot down that crock about how it didn’t matter if he killed Peter because the girl was there), but he didn’t get the chance. As he opened his mouth he looked down to see Peter’s fist closing around his jacket; faster than he could think, he was flying.

The next thing he was aware of was pain exploding from--he didn’t know, behind him, he thought. It took him time to figure out what had happened: he’d hit the wall. Dazed, Indy fumbled first for his hat (still there), then tried to reassess the rest of himself through the fog caused by different places hurting. His back hurt like hell. The whole left side was bad--burned hand felt like it was on fire and he scrambled to stop bearing weight on it, burned side made him wince. Left shoulderbone might be cracked or just bruised. Blade was still sheathed thank God; it was digging into his right leg but hadn’t stabbed it. He put a hand up to find blood slicking the back of his hair, then realized that meant his hand was empty. The revolver was lying in the sand a few feet away.

Indy smacked his hand over it to stop Peter from getting to it, though he hadn’t yet figured out where Peter was. He got his hand back into it and brought his knees in toward his chest, using his legs and the bottom of his gun hand to shove himself awkwardly back to something like a standing position against the wall without using his shot left hand at all. A couple of blinks brought the red and blue suit back into his field of vision.

“You hit like a girl,” he deadpanned. (Sure. Like Marion on the warpath, possibly.) Having managed the obligatory taunt for the round, he lifted the gun again and fired a couple of shots several feet to Peter’s left.

[its_the_mileage]

Whoops, Indy was tempted to crack, but Peter sounded about as upset as he’d ever heard anyone who hadn’t just been shot sound. “Sorry. Little dazed,” he said. He could’ve added, You know, from being thrown into a wall,, but there was no sense making Peter feel any worse about it than he had to. Indy still winced inwardly whenever he thought of how broken up Peter had been after that business with his friend in Doyleton--Harry, that was it. Tomorrow was going to be even worse.

It bothered Indy that he’d killed the kid and now he had to struggle to come up with his name. He should have done more about that. Asked how Peter was doing now that some time had passed or--something. He shouldn’t’ve just let it fade into the back of his mind, just another Landel’s incident he didn’t have time to think about in the midst of the next crisis. There were a lot of threads he’d let fall like that. Too late to pick them back up now.

Peter sprang to the wall next to him and Indy almost laughed out loud; the sight of the person-shaped mass of color clinging to the barricade like a spider was incongruous, approaching outright ridiculous. The threat to take the gun wasn’t, though. Now he had a problem: keeping his aim off was going to have repercussions on Dent and Pilgrim soon if it hadn’t already, especially if Peter kept howling about it.

“You can’t shoot yourself,” he pointed out, talking fast. As he did, he was looking around--was there anything he could hook the whip onto? The lights? Could he hoist himself up to the throne? Not in his current shape, and nothing presented itself. “Aguilar said we have to fight to the death. It’s not a fight if someone kills himself; the sacrifice might not even count.” He kept his voice down while he said it, because he was grasping at straws here and he didn’t want Aguilar to step in and clarify.

It also wasn’t a fight if he forfeited, it occurred to him. Maybe he needed to do some token damage here--and make it harder for Peter to hurt himself if he didn’t buy Indy’s explanation. As he finished speaking, he fired the last three shots in the chamber in rapid succession, trying to aim so it’d look credible but wouldn’t do more than clip Peter’s side. Good thing they were at such close range: hopefully the kid wouldn’t have time to dive to take the bullets in the gut instead.

[its_the_mileage]

Indy’s gut twisted as Peter tumbled off the wall and into the sand, bloodying it further as he landed. For a second he thought he’d hit something vital after all. As Peter rolled over, though, he saw his aim had been right: the bullet had just grazed the ribs. A relief, but not much comfort. He’d known even barely clipping one side like that would be painful, but actually seeing Peter grab at the wound still just-- All he could do was hope it was enough of a concession to the game to keep Aguilar from doing anything else to the guys up there. They’d both drawn blood. That made it a fight.

Hell of a fight, Indy thought. If the situation weren’t so dire, Pilgrim would probably be disappointed. Indy’d never engaged in much critical analysis himself, but from flipping through the worn copy of Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark (“The adventure that started it all!”), he knew that an Indiana Jones fight was supposed to involve copious whip-cracking, a few solid punches on both sides, and gunshots that actually hit someone. Hopefully Aguilar knew more about Indy from his file than from the movies--lowered expectations would be good right about now.

Indy’s own expectations were sinking into the floor. It was rare for his improvisation skills to fail him, but there was nothing here. No telltale seams on the side of the arena, no uneven patches on the floor that he’d been able to find, no evident break in the barrier that separated them all from each other. Taylor was on the floor by the seats, maybe looking for something around there. Indy wasn’t holding his breath. They had to have gotten in here somehow, yeah, but they weren’t going to find it in time.

He liked Pilgrim and Depth Charge for those outbursts, ineffective though they were. Peter had exactly the opposite reaction; the poor kid was just raging at anyone in his line of sight. That was better than what he did next, though. Indy stepped forward, wedged the empty gun back in his pocket so he could put his good hand on Peter’s shoulder. That wasn’t in the script for the fight, but it needed to be done.

“Listen,” he said. “I’ve been here three weeks, and I haven’t figured out anything. I’ve been stumbling around in the dark. I don’t even know what to do myself, much less have a monopoly on being able to do it. There are a lot of smart people here and eventually they’ll get to the bottom of this.”

His injuries were screaming at him. Indy ignored them and tried to straighten up a fraction. “I’ve had more than my share of adventures, and I’ve almost died for plenty of things worth less than this, in the end.” He thought again of the Grail: one of the most precious artifacts in human history, and he’d left it to be destroyed to save himself and his father. Indy could gamble with his own life, but he believed--another thing he was just putting into words now--protecting people you cared about was more important than fortune and glory, every time. “I’ve seen your bulletin posts. You have a hell of a lot of friends here, and when you get back home, you’ll have much more living ahead of you than I would.

“It won’t be easy. I know. But you can do it, Peter. I’m asking you as a friend.”

Indy swallowed hard. The die was cast. He’d never pictured things ending this way, but--hell, better Peter than a Zombi or a giant cockroach or one of Landel’s other sideshow experiments.

[its_the_mileage]

Well, Indy thought ruefully, it'd been worth a shot.

It would have been simpler if things had ended that way, but he couldn't blame Peter for not being willing to kill him; when the situation had been reversed a couple of minutes ago, Indy couldn't bring himself to aim right, and he wasn't going to do it now. If a fight was what it was going to take--

It all happened in an instant. The gun was jerked up and out of his jacket pocket with such force it nearly took him with it, and then it was flying into Peter's hand by way of--whatever that sticky substance was. With a long flip backward and not even a pause for dramatic last words, Peter pressed the gun against the side of his head.

Indy felt a split second of panic before he remembered the gun was empty. It took Peter longer to figure that out. He pulled the trigger, producing nothing but a hollow clicking sound. "Six shots!" Indy called. "I already used them all!" Luckily. He debated letting Peter keep the gun (better that it stayed as far away from the extra ammunition on Indy's belt as possible), then reconsidered: the kid could still try to crack himself over the head with it. He needed to get it back.

He uncoiled the whip from his shoulder and let the handle drop into his hand. It felt good, like reuniting with an old friend after a long absence; Indy was glad to get the chance to use it one more time. In one quick, practiced motion, he drew his arm back and snapped the whip forward with a resounding CRACK to catch on the gun, then jerked back again to send the weapon flying to the sand.

The pain was sharp and kept burning even as his coiled muscles relaxed. The motion required the use of his whole body, playing hell with his battered shoulders and back. But at least it was a maneuver he didn't have to think about.

[its_the_mileage]

Peter was still bleeding profusely from the side. Damn. He shouldn't have clipped him so closely. Shooting him at all had been a mistake.

The gun was on the ground, but that still left Indy with plenty on his mind. He looked up at Aguilar (still impassive), then Dent and Pilgrim (they looked stable for now), then Taylor and Depth Charge (fine, as far as he could tell)--brief rapid glances, not taking his eyes off of Peter too long. The rest of the situation hadn't changed; he only needed to focus on the arena. He had to keep the extra ammunition and the kid away from the revolver. If he could just--

He was already running (haltingly, agonizingly) when the white ropes snapped out again and grabbed the gun. Indy was too late. He could only stop and watch as the weapon flew across the arena to be stuck firmly to the wall. It would take him precious minutes to pry (carve? dig?) it out. That was good, though, as long as it would also slow Peter down getting to it. Better it stayed there. Maybe he could scatter the ammo around the arena, bury it under the sand, anything.

He heard the patter of running footsteps in the sand and looked just in time to see Peter flying at him.

Indy's understanding of what happened next came in fits and starts. There was a cracking sound. Pain, excruciating pain, blossomed in his chest, a second before it hit again at his back and sand flew up around him. He tried to yell, but he didn't hear much coming out. He was choking, spluttering. The light above him was so damn bright. "May He who illuminated this illuminate me," he thought of his father saying. Why was that coming to him now?

With fumbling fingers, he struggled to reach for his chest to see what was wrong, and the realization came to him belatedly, yet again: Peter had kicked him. Peter wasn't a normal kid after all. The superhuman force of the blow had cracked his ribcage in. Something was punctured. His heart, his lungs? He couldn't tell what, it was all just a mess. Dimly, he realized there was blood all over the place.

His hat was gone. Where the hell was it, he wasn't going to die without his hat on. He twisted his head, trying to see where it had fallen.

[its_the_mileage]

Indiana Jones and the Quest for the Fedora came to an abrupt halt as the agony spiked and Indy's body bucked convulsively with it. He looked up toward the light and it was Peter, not the bizarre mask but Peter himself, pressing on his chest. Why was he--oh, Indy thought, pressure. Stop the bleeding. Probably what they told you to do in Boy Scouts these days. Nice try, but it wouldn't have been the way to staunch an injury like this, if there'd been a way. He knew he was dying.

His thoughts came back again to his father, just a few months ago this time, lying on the floor of the Grail Temple with a big ugly hole in his body. They hadn't talked about those moments. Indy wished now that they had. He wanted some kind of map, some sense of what his father had thought and felt as he lay dying, before he was healed by the waters of the Grail. He'd spent his life studying the dead; he didn't know how to prepare himself to join them.

Peter was crying, he realized. He needed to say something, try to reassure him. It's all right, kid. This is what I asked you to do. Indy opened his mouth to try to get the words out, then choked them off. It wasn't going to help. There had to be something he could say that would make the next morning a little less awful. It was there somewhere, like the answer to a riddle he couldn't quite solve; he just didn't know what it was. Maybe his father had thought that too as he'd contemplated his own death on that stone floor: I've never once said the right thing to that boy.

There wasn't enough time left to think of it now. He was on the verge of losing consciousness. With grim determination, Indy stretched his hand back above him until it fell on the brim of his hat. He splayed his fingers out, curled them back in; managed to get a grip on the edge and slowly dragged the fedora back down to settle it firmly on his head. He reached down then for Peter's hand and tried to clench it. This was it. This was important. He needed Peter to listen. Indy's breath rattled in his throat.

"Find my father," he forced out urgently, and then he died.